Ayelet Tsabari narrates her own version of womanly soul-searching, reminiscent of EAT, PRAY, LOVE, in a pensive voice. Her journey is far from smooth. We join her as she recounts with raw honesty bouncing from Israel to the United States, Canada, Thailand, and India. Listeners will be drawn in by her direct, unflinching revelations of aspects of her life— from the untimely death of her father when she was 10 to her search for a place in the world. Tsabari shares her unusual and often painful experiences with love, loss, and experimentation in a soulful undertone that reflects each hard-won personal discovery. This audiobook offers a unique perspective on the travel memoir. M.R. © AudioFile 2019, Portland, Maine
![The Art of Leaving: A Memoir](http://img.images-bn.com/static/redesign/srcs/images/grey-box.png?v11.9.4)
The Art of Leaving: A Memoir
Narrated by Ayelet Tsabari
Ayelet TsabariUnabridged — 11 hours, 14 minutes
![The Art of Leaving: A Memoir](http://img.images-bn.com/static/redesign/srcs/images/grey-box.png?v11.9.4)
The Art of Leaving: A Memoir
Narrated by Ayelet Tsabari
Ayelet TsabariUnabridged — 11 hours, 14 minutes
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Overview
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY KIRKUS REVIEWS
This searching collection opens with the death of Ayelet Tsabari's father when she was just nine years old. His passing left her feeling rootless, devastated, and driven to question her complex identity as an Israeli of Yemeni descent in a country that suppressed and devalued her ancestors' traditions.
In The Art of Leaving, Tsabari tells her story, from her early love of writing and words, to her rebellion during her mandatory service in the Israeli army. She travels from Israel to New York, Canada, Thailand, and India, falling in and out of love with countries, men and women, drugs and alcohol, running away from responsibilities and refusing to settle in one place. She recounts her first marriage, her struggle to define herself as a writer in a new language, her decision to become a mother, and finally her rediscovery and embrace of her family history-a history marked by generations of headstrong women who struggled to choose between their hearts and their homes. Eventually, she realizes that she must reconcile the memories of her father and the sadness of her past if she is ever going to come to terms with herself.
With fierce, emotional prose, Ayelet Tsabari crafts a beautiful meditation about the lengths we will travel to try to escape our grief, the universal search to find a place where we belong, and the sense of home we eventually find within ourselves.
Praise for The Art of Leaving
“The Art of Leaving is, in large part, about what is passed down to us, and how we react to whatever it is. . . . [It] is not self-help-we cannot become whatever we put our mind to-yet*it suggests that we can begin to heal from what has broken us, if we only let ourselves. . . . Tsabari's intense prose gave me pause.”-The New York Times Book Review*“Shortlist”
“Told in*a series of fierce, unflinching essays . . . an Israeli Canadian author explores her upbringing and the death of her father in this*stark, beautiful memoir.”*-Shelf Awareness (starred review)
“The Art of Leaving*will take you on*an emotional journey you won't soon forget.”-Hello Giggles
“Candid, affecting . . . [Ayelet Tsabari's] linked essays cohere into a tender, moving memoir.”-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
Editorial Reviews
01/07/2019
Tsabari (The Best Place on Earth) offers an insightful and kaleidoscopic account of a life scarred by the death of her father from a heart attack when she was in fourth grade. One of six children born into a Jewish Yemeni family living near Tel Aviv, Tsabari was close with her father, a lawyer who wrote poetry. The author aspired to write as well, but when her father died she lost her sense of security and direction, things she wouldn’t recover until adulthood. After graduating high school in the mid 1980s, she served in the Israeli Army and then traveled to New York, India, and Thailand; she candidly writes of dabbling in drugs and acquiring and jettisoning boyfriends. She eventually landed in Vancouver, Canada, where she married and divorced within a couple of years. Her fear of attachment to any one person or place kept Tsabari constantly on the move when at age 28—with no money saved and no prospects—she came to the realization that “leaving is the only thing I know how to do.” By the book’s end, Tsabari seems contented and her prose feels lighter as she describes how, in her 30s, she met and married a sailor named Sean. Readers will be moved by Tsabari’s colorful, intimate memoir. (Feb.)
Superb. . . . deep in meaning, rich in imagery and continuously engaging.
Warm, intimate, and humane.
The Art of Leaving deftly illustrates the ways home can be any or all of the above, simultaneously or at different times in our lives. The book pushes readers to examine their own personal and political histories and to question the ways those histories fit into a bigger, global picture.
Powerful… Brilliant… The stories depict minorities so skillfully, with such a light and accurate touch.
In The Art of Leaving, Ayelet Tsabari excavates the dark loam of her memory, unearthing treasure after treasure. Her discoveries are nuanced, complex, and beautiful. These essays are timely and urgent, and they’ve been polished ‘til they shine.
Compassionate, compelling… Her stories speak out from from the heart of Israeli society and experiences. The stories of The Best Place on Earth leave you wishing they wouldn’t end. Highly recommended.
New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice
Tsabari’s characters represent the complexities that really define Israel, the differing people jostling one another in this tiny plot of land on the Mediterranean. Their tales are fascinating.
Ayelet Tsabari’s memoir is a passionate account of the pain, fire and fury of adolescence and young adulthood, the search for a sense of belonging and reconciling the disparate part of our lives and ultimately ourselves.
Impressive… Brutally honest… Smart, sad and sincere…The characters imagined by Tsabari are achingly human and almost flawlessly fashioned.
A well-crafted literary snapshot of love relationships amid shellfire and suicide bomb. Tsabari emerges as a writer to show a new way to look at the world amid the confluence of love and death, sex and survival.
Told in a series of fierce, unflinching essays . . . an Israeli Canadian author explores her upbringing and the death of her father in this stark, beautiful memoir.”
The best place on Earth is wherever you are reading Ayelet Tsabari’s debut short story collection. Filled with vivid characters and compelling storytelling.
Tsabari is in prime form, capturing in mercilessly precise prose hard-to-do-justice-to feelings. . . . This is a writer who is capable of holding your throbbing heart in one hand while pressing the tip of her pen to your jugular with the other.
“The Art of Leaving will take you on an emotional journey you won’t soon forget.
Ayelet Tsabari has written a beautiful, complex and emotionally breathtaking memoir. . . . The Art of Leaving is a marvel of a book, at once tender and fearless, from a writer at the peak of her creative powers.
Long after finishing The Art of Leaving, I’m still craving adventure, and still thinking through Tasbari’s nuanced reflections on what it means to be a mother and a wanderer in a world that says women can’t be both.
Ayelet Tsabari is a fierce-tender writer. Her work is an enchanting mix of vivid anecdote and vigorous insight—spanning generations and geographies, glittering with humour and heart.
A notable debut…. Issues of assimilation and belonging… are approached here in specific ways that both trouble the underlying cultural conversations and tell moving stories.
It’s impossible not to be awestruck by the depth and power rendered in Tsabari’s stories—she does so much with so little.
The Art of Leaving is, in large part, about what is passed down to us, and how we react to whatever it is. . . . [It] is not self-help—we cannot become whatever we put our mind to—yet it suggests that we can begin to heal from what has broken us, if we only let ourselves. . . . Tsabari’s intense prose gave me pause.
Ayelet Tsabari narrates her own version of womanly soul-searching, reminiscent of EAT, PRAY, LOVE, in a pensive voice. Her journey is far from smooth. We join her as she recounts with raw honesty bouncing from Israel to the United States, Canada, Thailand, and India. Listeners will be drawn in by her direct, unflinching revelations of aspects of her life— from the untimely death of her father when she was 10 to her search for a place in the world. Tsabari shares her unusual and often painful experiences with love, loss, and experimentation in a soulful undertone that reflects each hard-won personal discovery. This audiobook offers a unique perspective on the travel memoir. M.R. © AudioFile 2019, Portland, Maine
Product Details
BN ID: | 2940169094985 |
---|---|
Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
Publication date: | 02/19/2019 |
Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
In My Dreams We Hug Like Grown-ups Do
For my tenth birthday, my father promised he would publish my writing in a book.
“A real book?”
“A real book. Put together your best stuff.”
I had been writing ever since I learned the alphabet. By the end of first grade, I was crafting books from school notebooks, complete with illustrated cover images and blurbs on the back. I had even started a library of my writings that was frequented by neighbors and cousins. I attached a pocket for a library card to the back of each notebook and fashioned a library stamp by carving letters on an eraser.
My father used to write too; I had seen the scribbling in his bedside drawer—parts of poems, unsent letters, his handwriting artfully drawn and rounded with long strokes, always in black ink. At the bottom of the drawer, I found a yellowing magazine titled Afikim, in which one of his poems was featured, his only publication.
That day, after my father made his promise, I locked myself in my room and wrote until dinnertime. After dinner I wrote some more. By the next day, I’d filled a notebook with the tale of a young girl adjusting to a new school. Earlier that year, my family had moved, so I drew the story from my own experience. When I finished, I proudly presented my father with my work. He was resting in bed, leaning against a pile of pillows, recently out of the hospital.
“What’s this?” he said.
“A book, like you asked.”
He laughed, flipped through the pages. “You wrote all this yesterday?”
“Yes.” I puffed out my chest.
He put the notebook aside. “Writing a book should take longer than a day. There’s still time before your birthday.”
“But you didn’t read it!” I protested. “How do you know it’s not good?”
He promised he’d read it.
A few days later, as I was walking back from the library, two books clutched to my chest, I saw an ambulance parked on the curb outside our house, its orange flicker lighting up the rosebushes in timed, urgent intervals—a busy signal.
∙ ∙ ∙
After school, Nurit and I mostly go to her place, because hers is always empty and mine never is. Nurit’s house key hangs like a pendant around her neck, and she has pay phone tokens threaded on her shoelaces for emergencies. In my house, unless my mom is visiting my dad at the hospital, she is at home with the baby, and my older sister and three older brothers are in their rooms or in the kitchen or in the living room or downstairs playing Ping-Pong with their friends. Every day my aunts and uncles and cousins come to visit too, for lunch or for an afternoon coffee and cake, or just to chat. “This house is like a train station,” my mother often sighs, but she sounds secretly pleased.
On days when Nurit does come over, mostly in the afternoons when my mom is napping, we go up to the roof. From there you can see rain-streaked buildings with protruding balconies, their flat white roofs crowded with crooked antennas, water tanks, and gleaming solar panels. Kids sit on window ledges and dangle legs through metal bars, and strings of colorful laundry smile under windows. Looking east, you can see the end of Petah Tikva, the trees that line the highway leading to the airport, and the hills of Rosh HaAyin in a squiggly line on the horizon. On our west, down the eternally jammed Jabotinsky Road, is Tel Aviv, the big city with its narrow streets and white sand beaches and the promise of the world beyond its shores. Airplanes circle above us like hungry seagulls before landing, and sometimes warplanes zoom by on their way north of the border. The war is far away, but we can see it written on the grown-ups’ faces: the tension in their cheeks, the groove between the eyebrows. We can hear it in the music played on the radio, beautiful songs in minor keys about death and the land that fill us with sweet sadness.
Our new house is in Mahane Yehuda, a Petah Tikva neighborhood that was founded by Yemeni immigrants at the beginning of the twentieth century. The main street—a short strip with stumpy buildings propped against each other like a train that has stalled in its tracks—is hidden behind a row of cypress trees, spiky palms with leaves like fountains, and a scary abandoned house with a broken staircase suspended in midair, leading to a nonexistent second floor.
Nurit and I play in my attic, a small triangular alcove under the slanted roof that you have to access through a hole in the wall. Other times, my brother who is three years older than me invites his friends to play music there, which isn’t fair because he has his own room and I have to share mine with a baby.
Nurit and I tell each other everything. I’m the only one of her friends who knows her mom had an accident when she was young: her dark, beautiful hair was caught in an industrial fan in the factory where she worked and that is why she now wears a wig. I’ve never told anyone about that, but every time I walk by a large fan, I imagine my hair being ripped out of my skull. Nurit is also the first person I called after my dad had the heart attack.
Aba’s heart attack happened on the first Shabbat of September in 1982, two days after I started fourth grade. I was playing at Keren’s, my neighbor who lives a few houses down from us, even though her family isn’t Yemeni. There are a few families like hers on our street, lured by the cheap prices and the proximity to downtown. Keren’s two brothers are in the air force, so she knows things about the war in Lebanon that started in the summer, when the Israeli troops made it as far as Beirut. In the spring, when we saw Israeli kids kicking and fighting and crying on TV as the army evacuated them from their homes, Keren was the one who explained to me why we were withdrawing from Yamit, which was in the Sinai Peninsula, and how it was a good thing we were returning it to Egypt because now we could finally have peace and go see the pyramids. Once, she lent me a top secret air force book that teaches soldiers how to identify warplanes, and I’ve studied it carefully in case I see enemy planes in the sky.
We were in Keren’s room when my sister came to get me. My sister is sixteen. She wears shapeless embroidered galabiyas she buys from Arab shopkeepers in Jaffa and walks barefoot. She has a poster of Janis Joplin over her bed, screaming into a mic, hair fanning out like an octopus. Her bedroom smells like smoke and incense. In our old apartment, we shared a room, and I would fall asleep to the sound of her turning pages. Now she never lets me into her room. When she’s out, I sneak in and search for secret notebooks and letters. I open her wardrobe drawers and try on her makeup and perfume, hoping to rub some of her coolness onto me.
“You have to come home,” my sister said.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“But why? Ima doesn’t mind.”
My sister stared at the floor for a bit and finally sat down on Keren’s bed. I sat beside her. “Aba had a heart attack while playing soccer,” she said. “He’s in the hospital.”
Keren placed her hand on my arm and told me her father had a heart attack too, a few years ago. He was airlifted by a helicopter to a hospital. “He’s fine now,” she said. “Yours will be fine too.”
Over the next few weeks, as my father goes in and out of the hospital, looking thinner and weaker each time, I keep thinking of Keren’s words. I wonder how long it took before her father was fine, but I never ask.
Most days, Nurit and I talk about boys—boys like Danny, who has hair the color of straw and bluish-gray eyes. Danny isn’t popular like my boyfriend, Alon, who is athletic and cool. Danny does not play sports and he’s good at math. Nurit thinks he likes me. I wave my hand at that and tell her she’s crazy, but inside my chest, my heart does a little dance.
Alon asked me to be his girlfriend last year, in third grade. I had just started in the new school. We were playing hide-and-seek after class under an apartment building on Bialik Street, and when I hid behind a hibiscus bush, Alon knelt beside me. We crouched silently for a while. My palms felt clammy. He glanced at me and said, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” I blushed and said, “You don’t even know me.” And he said, “I like what I know.” And so I said, “Okay, yes.” We stayed for a while and talked, even though the game was over and someone was yelling, “Come out now, everybody.” When we joined the rest, my face was flushed and I couldn’t stop smiling, and this girl Iris looked at me funny. I didn’t know that she liked Alon. I didn’t know he used to be her boyfriend in second grade.
A few weeks after that, Iris and some other girls cornered me at recess and told me that I was too bossy and snobby, that I always wanted to make the rules for the games, and that they weren’t going to play with me or talk to me anymore. When I came home for lunch, I was crying, and Aba sat on my bed and asked me to tell him everything. Aba always listens to me. He doesn’t just nod while folding laundry or washing the dishes, like Ima does. That day after lunch, he took me to his work and bought me a strawberry jam donut, powdered with sugar, from the European deli by his office. On the way back home, sitting in the backseat of his olive-green Ford Cortina, I heard him talking to his brother in English so I wouldn’t understand, but I did. He said, “She is sad because the girls say she’s acting like a queen.”
When I go visit Aba at the hospital, he looks thin and his eyes are tired, but he’s still smiling. The nurses beam at him and call him dear, and I can tell they like him. Everyone likes my dad: the people at the deli who give me free donuts; his secretary, who perks up whenever he walks in; the strangers on the street who shake his hand effusively; and his clients, whom I see sometimes when I visit his law office, many of them old people from Sha’ariya, a small Yemeni neighborhood at the edge of Petah Tikva. They thank him repeatedly, overcome with emotion, until he waves his hand, embarrassed, and says, “Don’t worry about it. Just pay me when you can,” or sometimes, “It’s okay. Just pray for me in the synagogue.”
Aba asks about my writing and the books I’ve been reading. Before his heart attack, he wrote the word “masterpieces” on an old shoebox and filled it up with books he thought I might want to read and discuss, like Around the World in Eighty Days and Little Women and David Copperfield and Oliver Twist. I want to climb on his bed and cuddle with him but my mom says I can’t.
At night, before I go to sleep, I pray to God to make Aba better and hope God listens even though my family isn’t really religious and we drive and watch TV and turn on appliances on Shabbat. I hope God remembers that before Aba got sick, he used to go to synagogue every week and helped people for free. When I take off my shoes, if one of the soles faces the ceiling, I fix it right away, because my savta, my mom’s mom, who came from Yemen, once told me it is rude to be giving Him the dirty sole of your shoe. Savta peppers her sentences with “God have mercy” and “Insha’Allah,” which means “God willing” in Arabic. She looks up at the sky, shaking her head and sighing and slapping her thighs, and I know she is talking to Him, probably listing her misfortunes: her dead husband, her brother who was killed in the war, her mother, who abandoned her when she was only two and no one knows why. I wish I had such a candid, direct relationship with God.
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